


Shotgunning 101

by sweetasscas



Series: Drabbles and Ficlets [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetasscas/pseuds/sweetasscas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine being the one to teach Cas to shoot a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgunning 101

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://supernaturalimagine.tumblr.com/post/112568259248/anon).

“Okay, so cradle the buttstock in this pocket here,” I say as I press the shotgun into his shoulder, letting the point of the stock dig in where his deltoid lays over his minor pec. “You can adjust it until it’s not hitting your collarbone.”

“Here?” He shifts the long gun slightly.

“Nope. Don’t want it in your armpit. The kick would hurt like a bitch. Closer to your chin.” I move the gun where it needs to be, and he gives a small grunt when the heavy gun finds purchase. “Now, cheek to the stock. Start with the wood on your jaw and smoosh down, so you have some padding on your cheekbone. Good.”

His arms start to shake from the exertion of holding up a 9-pound 12 guage Beretta 391.

“Let’s take a break,” I say as I take the gun from him. “Here in a minute I’m going to start throwing targets and you’re going to get a feel for it, but I don’t want you to be afraid of the kick. Most people think it’s just back,” I rock backward to demonstrate, “but it’s actually back and up. You have to control the muzzle.”

He squints and I run my hand up the blue-black metal. “The barrel,” I amend. “That’s where the forearm comes in.” I shoulder the gun and pat the forward stock with my left hand. “You want to cradle, not grip. Let your body control the momentum, but trust your fore-hand to find your target.”

He takes it all in with calculated silence, eyebrows pinched in concentration. “You point.”

I lower the gun from my shoulder. “Um, yeah. Old habit. Some people cup the wood; some people point. I tend to curl around the gun. Lets me handle the weight and kick better. You won’t have that problem.”

He huffs a laugh as I gesture at my frame versus his. “Okay. I’m ready to try.”

“Good,” I smile as I start to hand him the shotgun. “You’re empty and safe,” I say almost out of habit, fingers in the chamber as proof.

His look of concentration intensifies as he cradles the gun to his shoulder, eyes wide open behind his safety glasses and lined up behind the sights.

“Good. Ready for some ammo?”

“Yes.” He lowers the gun and moves to hand it over. I stop him with a quick movement, two shotgun shells in my hand. I drop one into the chamber and hit the closure. The chamber snaps closed. “Keep your fingers clear of that, yeah? It will take the tip of your finger off.”

He nods solemnly as I shove the second shell into the magazine. “You are loaded and hot.”

His eyebrow quirks up at the double entendre, but he shoulders the gun without a word.

“Cheek to the wood, eyes lined up, looking out here.” I wave my hand absently above my head.

“Yes.”

I hide my laugh and yell, “Pull!” while hitting the button for the trap. The machine sitting in front of us throws a bright orange clay target. It sails straight away from us, up into the bright blue sky, and gently sinks back to earth about 40 yards out. It hits the ground amidst a pile of broken brethren, leaving a small puff of dust in its wake.

I look back at him, gun shouldered, finger on the trigger, eyes wide.

“You forgot to shoot it.”

“It seems so, yes.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Call pull when you’re ready.”

He gulps. “Pull?”

I press the button and another target flies, exactly the same as the last. The gun goes off this time, over my left shoulder. He misses just to the right.

“You’re still hot. Whenever you’re ready,” I say without looking at him.

“Pull,” he says with more force, more authority.

I press the button; the target flies. The target turns to powder a fraction of a second after the gun fires.

“Good.” I turn to him and take the gun from his shoulder. He’s not smiling - he’s beaming.

“Ready to go again?”

“Yes, please.” He can hardly contain his excitement. I drop a shell in the chamber, hit the closure, and shove one in the mag.

“You’re loaded and hot. Stock to your shoulder. Cheek to the stock. Eyes lined up. Looking out here.” I correct his stance and wave my hand above my head. “Call when you’re ready.”

“Pull!”


End file.
